


save john watson.

by toffeelemon



Series: it is what it is [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Sherlock, Canon Compliant, Implied homophobia, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mentions of Suicide, Minor Character Death, Post S4, References to Drugs, Underage Smoking, bullying oops, but also canon is dead to me, emotional context and little plot, gay uni shinanigans, gay university roomates, harry watson's drinking, john's unresolved childhood coming out trauma, rosie my girlfriend i am sO sorry, sherlock and rosie are best buddies, sherlock makes drugs, teenage lesbian rosie, underlying ace sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-28
Updated: 2017-01-28
Packaged: 2018-09-20 08:07:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9482162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toffeelemon/pseuds/toffeelemon
Summary: Everyone thinks that John Watson is a heroic saviour. Sherlock Holmes, on the other hand, was terrible at saving anything, maybe except for the dignities of murder victims. In a world of give and take, it was only fair that Sherlock Holmes would try his best to save John Watson.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhatIsAir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatIsAir/gifts).



> TRIGGER WARNINGS BE WARNED: brief mentions of homophobia, smoking, self harm, suicide, Harry’s drinking, making drugs? (honestly what even is this story) I have a great phobia of canon compliance and this story wouldn’t happen if Moftiss didn’t already completely annihilate the characters, so thanks mates. Prepare for far too much emotional context, little to no plot, and a lot of Rosie (because we need a solid female character duh). 
> 
> This has no afflictions with the other fic in this series except that, 1) they were both last minute birthday presents, and 2) I liked the mirroring between "it's all fine" in s1e1 and "it is what it is" and I am not saying it wasn't platonic but, it reminded me of not-platonic events in my life, so.
> 
> Happy birthday my angel. I dedicate all that I have to you even though what I have is trash x

Sherlock Holmes, in additional to his emotionally vulnerable streak, also had suffered from a severe self-importance complex for a long time now, although Mycroft always failed to notice the latter. Greg Lestrade thought it was that Sherlock actually believed that he was the Queen of England and refused to see with anyone eye to eye. As always, Lestrade and all his men from Scotland Yard didn’t have the slightest clue. 

Sherlock didn’t have a superiority complex, in fact, he never stopped struggling to realise his own value. Conveniently, he had since developed a coping mechanism, and it was to base Sherlock Holmes’ value relative to other people. His life was only worth living for the work, the work that he did to restore justice and pay more respect to the dead than the living. He guessed that he could have put his intellect into better use than becoming a consulting detective, but Sherlock had always liked playing the hero and saving the day from the very beginning. 

It was one of his favourite mottos whenever they were playing pirate. “Don’t fear, Redbeard, I’m here to save the day! I will protect you!” Sherlock would proclaim earnestly, grinning ear to ear with a twig in his hand and unruly curls flying in the wind, staring down at Victor from a higher rock. The ginger boy only scoffed and pulled a face at him. “Right, like you weren’t a wimp and always the first to cry when you got stung by a jellyfish!” Yellowbeard wanted to complain but his friend, although slightly less bright, was right, and Sherlock was lost for words. He pulled a face back, nonetheless still smiling and enjoying himself despite the teasing. 

The rock was cool beneath his feet and Victor’s mock posh accent, probably an influence from Sherlock, vanished into the sound of crashing waves. “Come on, you hero, you’re gonna get wet,” the boy dragged him off the shore before Sherlock met a particularly tall wave’s doom. “One day, I will save you, just you wait,” Sherlock remained defiant the entire walk back to their village. “I’m sure you will,” Victor poked his tongue out before parting ways.

Sherlock never had the chance to save Victor at the end, until it was too late. Subconsciously he never stopped looking for Redbeard though, despite his friend’s name was now forgotten, his presence yet another jammed cupboard in Sherlock’s mind palace. Without knowing, the teenager had yet recruited another light haired, bright eyed boy into his limited social circle. Terrence was nowhere near brilliant but Sherlock found him tolerable enough, not to mention was slightly amused by the only person in their university lab class who dared to argue with Sherlock Holmes, the infamous 16 year old self acclaimed genius. The blond boy was good natured at heart, teasing Sherlock as part of their daily bickering but always quick to defend his friend when everyone threw genuine insults at him.

Sherlock never quite knew did Terrence qualify as his best friend when technically he only had one friend in the entire college, and it wasn’t like he had any experience around the expertise of best friends anyways. Some would laugh that the older boy was acting as a bodyguard of some sorts, although Terrence was frail and significantly smaller than Sherlock with his lanky limbs. Sherlock liked to believe that he was more needed than he needed Terrence, with the dumber boy always asking him about assignments. Were they in a relationship? Again, Sherlock wouldn’t know. Human nature took him ages to figure out, even with practice, not to mention those that he never experienced.

Sherlock wanted to preserve it in a glass jar to examine the emotion when he first felt that overwhelming sense of possession and protectiveness wash over him. Terrence was insistent that he had discovered a previously unknown synthesis of crystal meth that would give a yield higher than 50%, and as a result Sherlock had broken into the lab after dark, dragging his friend along for his proof. After several hours and a groundbreaking test that granted justice to the idiot of the pair, Terrence grabbed a baffled Sherlock by the lapels of his lab coat and pulled him in for a long kiss. He tasted of black coffee and strawberry flavoured mints. No one could ever surprise the clever Sherlock Holmes, but this boy came pretty close. The bigger surprise in fact came from the realisation that his protective streak stemmed from the wish of protecting those that were his, and Sherlock desperately wanted to call Terrence his own.

A more fitting description of exactly what part did Terrence play in Sherlock’s life, would be his roommate. Although it didn’t slip past other fellow students in the house that both of them had their own single room, yet Terrence was always seen stumbling out of Sherlock’s ten minutes before a lecture. Sherlock had a suspecting theory that if Terrence stopped needing him, he will no longer be his, so Sherlock made sure to tend to his friend’s every need, even if it meant being less decent and involved new and confusing feelings. He always enjoyed fun experiments, and memorizing all the constellations of ginger freckles across Terrence’s bare collarbone wasn’t so bad. Soon enough, Sherlock faced greater threats from his fellow classmates than merely annoyance directed at him generally being a prick, but half of the time he either shrugged it off, or genuinely didn’t get the joke. Terrence didn’t take it as well, and Sherlock always had a secret thrill when he finally got to watch his friend’s back for once, and be the brave dragon slayer. 

Sherlock never would’ve guessed that some people would be so disapproving of him and Terrence’s frankly very private fraternising business that they would dare to take his only friend away. It was near the end of the second term when Terrence was kicked out for possession of illegal drugs, after an anonymous note arrived at the dean’s office. The two boys had long forgotten about the methamphetamine crystals left on Terrence’s dust-adorned window sill, a token from the night that all had begun. Sherlock refused to bid his friend goodbye as his room transformed to its original status of a single room again, turning his back to the sight of Terrence towing his trunks away from the college. For the genius chemist that he claimed himself to be, Sherlock was stupid enough to be unable to save his friend from himself. Terrence might have thought that the most dangerous experiment in his life was making drugs; little did he know that the most dangerous experiment of them all was actually Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson had spent his most of his military career saving lives, and Sherlock knew that it would be difficult to reverse their roles around upon first look, but he’d like to try anyways. Sherlock Holmes always loved a challenge. It took the consulting detective less that one day to learn exactly where the difficulty lay: unlike Sherlock’s ulterior motives, looking out for other people seemed to be Dr John Watson’s inbuilt selfless instinct. It was just second nature to him. In fact, John Watson unknowingly had already saved Sherlock in three different occasions, within 24 hours of their first meeting.

Sherlock was on the brink of having a breakdown at Angelo’s when Dr Watson, his then potential flatmate, feigned casualness whilst requiring about Sherlock’s relationship status. He didn’t miss the way how John’s fork had been aimlessly pushing pasta pieces around for the last fifteen seconds, the topic was making him nervous and Sherlock couldn’t quite decipher why. His mind immediately rushed to the darkest corner he could find, memories of people condemning him and Terrence, harsh insults and backstabbing that made him lose his best friend. Sherlock rushed to deny, mentally preparing himself for the let down when he had to cross yet another potential flatmate off the list, when John reassured him that “It’s all fine”. Sherlock smiled back distractedly, trying and failing to not see Terrence in those turquoise eyes, thanking John for reasons that he did not know himself.

The second was when John, sweet and oblivious John, immediately jumped to Sherlock’s defense without a second thought when they stumbled across Lestrade’s friendly drug bust. Of course, no one had found him convincing and John didn’t save Sherlock’s possessions from being misplaced and rummaged, but the sheer motivation that it provided Sherlock to stay clean, just for the sake of upholding John’s higher image of him, had saved the junkie in the days to come, without John ever knowing the significance behind his gesture.

The third but certainly not the last time that John Watson saved Sherlock’s pitiful life, remained to be a popular story on John’s blog that everyone, including Sherlock, was very fond of.

Evidently, Sherlock was in for a long haul competition when it came to saving John instead of vice versa, especially when he was a disaster of a man who could barely handle himself. Subconsciously, the aim of saving John Watson became a hardwired force of habit in his mind, and more often than not, ironically kept Sherlock alive. It took little more than Moriarty’s creeping voice chanting, “John Watson is in danger” to haul Sherlock out from critical condition. For once, Sherlock wasn’t afraid to admit that he needed his doctor in his life, more than anyone could possibly imagine. He needed John Watson to be alive because he was still waiting for that day when John would need him back.

It was quite a miracle that John would still even remotely want Sherlock around, after the detective broke one of his precarious promises again, at the London aquarium. Mary thought that by saving Sherlock Holmes’ life, she would in turn protect John from any other harm in the future. The detective highly suspected that she was wrong in doing so, but he would’ve done the same for John Watson, as he watched the soldier slowly losing composure with his dead wife in his arms. They didn’t get to decide whose life was worth saving, and both Sherlock and Mary could never protect John from heartbreak over either of them. Sherlock would just have to try even harder yet from now on, when Mary Morstan’s mission also became a burden on his shoulders. 

Eventually, the two men settled into an arrangement where they mutually acknowledged that they needed each other, but it was just convenience more than anything. Sherlock called John family now, and although he wasn’t complaining, family wasn’t really what he was looking for. At least, not in the way that John would introduce him as if he were a sibling.

“Hand them over,” Sherlock commented offhandedly as Rosie reached the top of the stairs of 221B. Startled for a split second, but still putting up an unfazed facade, the girl splayed her lanky limbs across her father’s chair, holding out her defense in a distance. “Sorry, hand what over?” The 15 year old cocked her head to the side, feigning innocence with a far too mature familiarity as her blonde fringe fell over fleeting eyes. 

Sherlock never knew what to do with himself when the blond and pretty ones get too clever with him. He had yet to learn to never underestimate a Watson.

He smiled coldly, eyes not once leaving his laptop (John’s to be exact) as he deadpanned, “You left the house with a week-old jumper and came back from school in fresh laundry, chewing gum. Nice try, I can’t smell it, but I can see tobacco ash under your nails, judging by it you went through at least half of a pack. Not in your blazer pocket though so where did you hide the rest of it?” 

Rosie shot that John look at him, that look of pure awe, before she returned to her usual angsty teenage self. She sighed dramatically. “It was worth a try,” she glared at her slightly less dull school jumper that gave her away, as if it had personally offended her. Sherlock reached out a palm expectantly, the wicked grin infused with an air of finality that the girl knew better than to argue. She unloaded her backpack and started digging, all whilst muttering half insults at the consulting detective’s intellect. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow in amusement at her mediocre covering up act. “You went through so much trouble just to smoke huh? Even I wasn’t that bad.”

“There you go,” She picked out three cigarettes from her pencil case and shoved them into Sherlock’s palm, deciding the conversation over and praying to all the deities that he would hopefully keep her secret from her doctor dad. However Rosie didn’t get the chance to escape before Sherlock unusually tugged at her wrist to pull her back into the interrogation spotlight. She might not be as smart but she knew that her godfather harboured many secrets of his own and therefore would always respect her privacy in return (the teenager had yet to learn that this was a privilege not enjoyed by many), so she was surprised when Sherlock just wouldn’t let this one time occurance go.

“There’s something else,” he stated, swiftly working to push her sleeves up and frowned when he didn’t find what he was looking for. Rosie cursed under her breath and refused to budge, as stubborn as a true Watson would be. “I don’t know what you’re suggesting, I’m clean,” She bared her forearms in the air as if to emphasize her point. The 15 year old had been clever enough to hide her true feelings from everyone, even her dad; but Sherlock Holmes wasn’t the average everyone. Rosie liked to think that it was because they were a tad bit alike (this was more of her wanted to relate her loser self to someone cool than logical reasoning), instead of him being an annoying mind reader as always, and that they were on in their little secret club of sadness and social inaptness.

Sherlock wasn’t fazed by his lack of evidence although Rosie was cunning enough to attempt a counter attack to his confidence. “You don’t really want me to go looking somewhere else now, do you,” he explained in a gentler tone, gaze tentatively shooting over somewhere above her right knee and as confirmed, the girl immediately looked self conscious about her hidden scars. “Also your pencil case was rattling and I don’t see how many different metal objects can you have in there,” he stated smugly as he held his palm out again, Rosie groaning in realisation as she retrieved her pencil tin. This time the small blade was meticulously placed in his hand instead, and Sherlock swallowed at the thought at how she cared more about not hurting him than herself. The girl stood silently by his side, knowing better than to run away this time if she still wanted to be in on their solidarity club and keeping her dad in the dark. 

“Why?” The tone of his voice almost sounded foreign and Rosie had to restrain herself from her most hated vulnerability before remembering that this was just an act, Sherlock Holmes was always a different person when he interrogated criminals and offenders. Her defense would not easily be broken. “You don’t actually care, you just want to know how did it go under your nose, don’t you? Well when Mrs. Turner’s new tenants moved in they were opening boxes with craft knives and…” 

“Rosie, I do care!” She trailed off immediately at Sherlock’s outburst, staring with wide eyes. She hadn’t seen him lose composure ever before, at least not in this serious kind of way. (In the back of her head she did realise that growing up to gunshots at the wallpaper and classifying these occurrences as normal wasn’t right, but Rosie Watson was never one to follow the conventional.) Sherlock’s voice was softer as he gazed up at her sincerely and muttered, “I don’t have a lot of people left to care about.” She simply had to give in. 

“I can’t… I can’t say it out loud,” Rosie’s voice trembled ever so slightly as the barricades fell and the tears threatened to spill. “But, you do want to tell me,” Sherlock prompted softly. He was an idiot when it came to knowing what people wanted, but what the girl needed was so blatantly clear. She was far too young to be alone in the dark, and although she was struggling to let him in, he would be patient for once. Rosie unconsciously started to go through her calming breathing routine, the words not finding their way out, before she came up with an idea. “You’re Sherlock Holmes, you can figure it out yourself. Please, do it for me.”

“Did someone die?” He exclaimed suddenly, albeit slightly insensitively, but a recovered Rosie only nodded and waited for him to continue. Sherlock exhaled in stress as he took in the severity of the situation. It wasn’t a hard deduction when he had regrettably survived his own death and obtained the first hand experience of how all those around him mourned, but the Watsons were always a bit too reclusive and stubborn to be read like an open book. 

“Reading festival. BBC Big Weekend. You’ve never been to any music festivals, you hate the crowds, so: belongs to someone else, sentimental value,” Sherlock stated as he recalled the sight of new bracelets on Rosie’s wrist, despite not quite finding the marks he was looking for. The girl gaped at this little detail. Even she didn’t realise she never took them off ever since that day. “Now, who did those belong to,” he ran through his thoughts verbally as Rosie scoffed nonchalantly, “Well, I don’t know that many people in the first place.” She was able to detach herself from her emotions now; playing these logic games with Sherlock always seemed to calm her down.

The living room was dead silent as ambulances drove past and Mrs. Hudson’s hoover went on and off at intervals. “I remember her! The short Pakistani girl with curly hair. She wears band tour hoodies under her blazer and she stole a test tube when she was over!” Sherlock turned to Rosie excitedly, who let out a damp laugh at the fond memory. 

“Oh my god, your kitchen is Sherlock Holmes’ lab? I’m not going home without taking something,” she had whispered to Rosie enthusiastically, thinking that said infamous detective was too far gone in his mind palace to notice.

“Alice,” she added helpfully as Sherlock rushed to gather information in his head. “Alice was your friend?” he asked delicately, arms now clutched around the armrests and creeping towards the girl who was standing next to him as if she could run away any second at opening her heart up. “Not just my friend,” Rosie quipped defensively out of reflex. “Your only friend,” Sherlock tried again, and the look she shot back at him was both offended and also, with a hint of almost missable bashfulness. Oh. Oh. He could feel the ghost of Rosie’s pain slowly weighing down on him as he pondered just how he could save her from herself.

“So, something more than friends,” he tiptoed cautiously, expecting the typical Watson lash-out-and-shut down at the revelation. Rosie only let out a choked laugh as she surreptitiously dabbed the corner of her eyes with her sleeves. “I wanted to be. But, just my only friend. It’s too late.” Sherlock blinked as he panicked internally. Just how do you save Rosie Watson from something that he couldn’t even protect himself from?

She sobbed quietly as Sherlock stayed unmoved in his chair awkwardly, scared to approach the girl and just not quite concerned enough to make a move yet. Rosie Watson was good like that, even though she was only 15, she already had too much control over her feelings and Sherlock didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse. He was so useless that he needed the girl herself to guide him to help her, but he believed that Rosie would come through when she was ready. Because they depended on each other in some way and he knew that she needed him.

“Suicide, they never knew why,” she cleared her throat and decided to take the narrative back. “Alice left her bracelets in my locker though, they were her favourites, hasn’t gone a day without them for the last three years,” Sherlock never went that long without interrupting someone but for now, listening would make do. “I should’ve gone to one of those stupid festivals that she always wanted me to go with. Heck, there’s so much that I should’ve done… and now it’s too late.”

“Do you want a hug?” The question came as a surprise to them both. Rosie was never the tactile type, and Sherlock even less so; but at this moment all she had was Sherlock and she might just take what she needed for once. Instead of running away as usual, she tentatively stepped closer until she was directly staring down at him determinedly with glossy eyes. He debated getting out of his chair, but before he could, skinny arms were wound around his head and Sherlock’s messy mop of curls was pulled into Rosie’s middle. His own arms awkwardly found their way somewhere on her waist, but he didn’t complain because this was how she liked it. Acting all towering and in control even though she only stood barely 5 feet tall and was even more small and vulnerable on the inside. The girl held on tightly as if Sherlock was one of those gigantic soft toys that Molly bought for her when she was still a toddler. 

“God, you smell like her,” Rosie commented distractedly once her breathing evened and she was too dehydrated to exhaust herself even more. “What, of nicotine and Yves Saint Laurent?” Sherlock made a poor attempt to lighten the mood as she pulled away, grinning weakly at that. “Yep, precisely, but Alice wasn’t as classy as you, she wore really cheap cologne,” it was his turn to laugh as she wiped her tears away. As the air sobered, Rosie didn’t make a move to escape as soon as possible and thus, gave Sherlock a chance to consider her in light of knowing the context. But why smoke so many cigarettes within one day? It wasn’t exactly pleasant for a first timer, even if she had missed the familiar scent of burnt tobacco this was a slightly desperate measure…

It dawned on Sherlock that this would be the closest that Rosie would ever get to kissing the girl on her mind, and the rational part of his brain immediately made a mental note to check for more blades or other hazardous objects in her room. The irrational part, however, was running several hundred miles per hour. Sherlock was pretty incompetent to start with, how on earth could he ever save Rosie Watson from herself, after all this? But he would have to, regardless, because he made a vow and he would not live to break it again. 

“I am an idiot but,” Rosie had to break a smile at that, it wasn’t every day that you hear Sherlock Holmes, the genius of Baker Street to make such a statement. “You do know that I am here for you right?” his eyes were fixed on her, wide and sincere. “Yes of course,” she nodded and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder before stepping away, and the man felt sheepish for feeling like he was the one being comforted. “You are an idiot.” 

It seemed that Sherlock could never shield Rosie Watson completely from harm’s way. John ditched his day job in the middle of an appointment when he received a rather concerning phone call from the school. Sherlock would’ve offered to go in place of him, but it didn’t feel appropriate and he would be of little help when the hospital turns him down for not being immediate family. All the detective could do was sulk at home and stare at the wall in despair as he perked his ears for the first sign of John coming home, preferably with Rosie. 

John trudged up the stairs with a barely conscious daughter clinging by his side, and Sherlock jumped out of the room to sweep her off her feet in one movement before they both tucked her into bed upstairs. John’s steps were heavy as he dragged himself back into the living room, a tense flatmate trailing behind, dying for some answers. Sherlock suspected a concussion by the looks of it, and the thought of Rosie being knocked out for some unknown reason sent a chill through his spine. What were kids at school even up to these days?

John collapsed into the sofa and immediately dropped his head into his palms, curling up small as if bracing for an impact. Sherlock almost wanted to remind him that there wasn’t really much use of preparing for a blow that had already hit, but he knew better than to be that cruel. The taller man settled on the coffee table opposite with his long legs folded awkwardly, John in his zig zag line of view in a comfortable distance. If you could hear thoughts as the detective claimed, then John was overwhelmed by Sherlock’s suffocating silent curiosity as he watched him intently. The father sighed and his face resurfaced, arms crossing over his knees as he frowned at the mantlepiece ahead.

“Some guys in the year above managed to lock her into a cupboard after knocking her out,” he choked out, his voice laced with a confusing mix of anger and sorrow. Sherlock bit his lip as he peered over at John. “They even jammed the lock, because they knew Rosie could pick locks,” at that, John turned accusingly towards his friend, who shrugged helplessly. Now really wasn’t the time to bicker when Sherlock was more desperate to hear about Rosie’s condition. John glared at his own clenched fists stoically as he gave a detailed account of how he basically had a row with all the medical staff in the hospital after Rosie insisted that she wanted to go home, and she passed out again in the cab, but should be fine after some sleep. Sherlock muttered a string of curses threatening the people who might possibly have inflicted some permanent brain damage to Rosie and hence endanger her Maths Olympiad and generally slightly above average intellect. John had to stifle a dry laugh at that, before reassuring Sherlock that his teenage successor was relatively out of harm’s way. Sherlock Holmes might have disregarded almost everyone on the face of earth, but luckily Rosie was far from being one of them. 

“Did you know this was happening?” Sherlock gulped as John’s glare pierced through his soul. In fact, he genuinely had no idea that Rosie was being bullied severely at school, but it didn’t seem like the greatest time to mention that he did, however, know other things about her that her father didn’t. There was no decent way to bring up that, oh, your daughter smoked once and self harmed to get over her dead best friend slash crush, especially when it came from Sherlock, the biggest insensitive prick in London. He simply shook his head and attempted to look as innocent as possible. “If I did, I would’ve done something about it,” he reasoned gently, and by the looks of John’s shoulders slacking, he had bought into Sherlock’s little cover up.

“How do we not know this?” John exclaimed in frustration, his voice going into a squeak at the end as his anger management frayed at the edges. Sherlock watched him closely and replied solemnly, “Well, Rosie is very good at hiding things, almost better than me even, and stubborn as hell. I wonder where she got that stubbornness from.” John snorted, before they both glanced at her baby photo on the mantlepiece ruefully. “They grow up so fast,” John laughed humorlessly, looking so distressed as if he didn’t understand why did humans age at all. Sherlock could only nod in silence, although he watched Rosie grow up under his roof, he could never quite sympathise with the feeling of being a single dad. 

“How did I let this happen? I’m such a terrible dad,” he announced with a barely hushed voice, furious with himself as his feet dug strongly into the carpet, in fear of kicking something in his poorly contained anger. Sherlock had since jumped onto the sofa to join John and now had his palm fiddling the fabric in the space between them, twitching and unsure whether to approach the seething man. There it was again, moments where Sherlock was desperate to do something, do anything, to make the people he cared about feel better; but he was only an idiot. “What’s the point in being a soldier and a doctor when I can’t even protect my own daughter?” Sherlock was quick to argue sternly, going on a long and detailed analysis on how John Watson was the most heroic person he’d ever known (not that he knew a lot of people), and recited an exhaustive list of the times he had saved lives, including but not limited to Sherlock Holmes himself. John made him shut up promptly by somehow looking more guilty at the praise, a certain guilt that they shared over the burden of Mary’s death. 

“John, you are brave and kind, you would’ve done everything to save Rosie if you could. It’s not too late now,” Sherlock reasoned, mustering as much sincerity as he can whilst swapping places to sit on the coffee table again, directly in front of John, who was dodging eye contact. “No, I’m not a saviour as you all think I am, stop saying that,” Sherlock was quick to interrupt again but John stopped him. “Sherlock, just listen!” The air was tense after John raised his voice despite their proximity, and Sherlock promptly closed his mouth and opted to bite the inside of his lip instead, observing the man across him with wide eyes. He was rarely that obedient and feeling slightly guilty, John shot him a quick apologetic look before trying softer again, “Just listen, okay, I find talking about this sort of stuff hard.” And so Sherlock did.

“I am not a hero, I am not brave,” John chanted it like a mantra and Sherlock had to remind himself to be patient and listen as John needed him to, long fingers digging into the edge of the coffee table in concentration. John took a deep breath and tried again with more clarity. “I’ve always wanted to be brave and that’s really why I went into the army, though the money helped. I’m not brave. You know what is bravery? Harry when she was 14, coming out to our dad even though she knew she was getting chucked out,” the implications behind this was blurry and fueled the questions already burning in the back of Sherlock’s mind, but he simply stayed silent and leaned in further into the conversation as a supportive gesture. John remained in his defensive position, staring at his arms that rested across his knees and refusing to look up. 

“I was barely 12 and looked up to her as a sort of hero, I guess. The brave hero that I desperately wanted to be. But she ruined all of that when the drinking started,” the trembling in John’s hands ceased and growingly worried, Sherlock had an urge to reach out and clutch them in his. Normally shaking hands was a cause of concern, but John Watson had always found comfort in being under stress and distracted by danger instead of the other neglected emotions of life. “I could’ve saved Harry and bring her back to the right path, but I was too busy being a coward myself,” a hand flew up to steady his bowed head and Sherlock didn’t have to look to know that John was in tears. “John,” Sherlock spoke up tentatively as he gently placed a palm on John’s shoulder, who went rigid but leaned into the touch anyways.

Just like his daughter, John was always quick to sober up from emotional vulnerability. When he came out of hiding, his eyes were still damp and he wore a small, unconvincing smile. He peered at his watch. “Wow, 18 minutes,” he chuckled, which reduced Sherlock Holmes to utter confusion, successfully distracting him from John’s wrecked state. “18 minutes… what?” John laughed a bit harder this time, eyes crinkling despite the tears. “Me and Rosie were betting who could make you shut up for a longer period of time,” Sherlock rolled his eyes at that. The Watsons really had him wrapped around their little fingers. He knew what John was doing, and refused to let him dodge the spotlight so easily when it was so rare that John ever opened up to him. 

“John, I just wanted you to know that,” Sherlock gripped his shoulder firmly as he stared right into John, “however lowly you thought of yourself, you did save my life many times, even though at times I didn’t deserve it.” John shrugged and let out a little breathless chuckle. “It’s not too late, Rosie is home and she is safe now, you could still be the hero that you wanted to be.” Sherlock watched John impatiently as he gauged his reaction, desperate to know that did he say the wrong thing yet again. John looked as if he was on the verge of tears, and Sherlock, in his panicked state, could only think to pull John into an embrace when he didn’t protest. John’s nose dug into his pristinely ironed shirt as he clutched onto Sherlock, not uttering a word. Sherlock patted him awkwardly, not knowing the right words to say except “It’s okay,” then, thinking better of it, he muttered “It is what it is” instead, again and again into John’s hair. 

When John eventually pulled away, he had a determined glint in his eyes that Sherlock was unable to decipher. John Watson was always a hard puzzle to crack. “You know what, you’re right, it’s not too late,” he announced levelly, hands still perched at Sherlock’s sides and reducing the detective to a flustered idiot as he traced his palms slowly up Sherlock’s arm. “John…” he warned with a squeal, blinking and not knowing what to do, yet unwilling to stop John after his little emotional outburst. (And because of, other reasons.)

“Shh, let me be brave for once,” John was still speaking in cryptic code as his fingers found their way into Sherlock’s dishevelled curls, gently massaging the tip of his ears with his thumb. Sherlock gulped as he was unable to escape John’s fixation on him, and all he could do was nod, before John pulled him into a kiss. 

John Watson was a very confusing man indeed. The kiss was gentle with closed lips; but the way that John was reluctant to end it and his fervent hands said otherwise. Not that Sherlock would know, his ability to think had disappeared about two seconds in and all he could do was scrunch his eyes shut and grab onto John’s knees for support. When John pulled away he was letting out high pitched giggles, which Sherlock mirrored with an embarrassingly croaky voice, before John pulled him in quickly for a chaste peck again.

Once Sherlock’s sanity surfaced, he had so many questions. Sure, he was enthralled for all the possibilities that this might lead to, but he was properly distressed that he had been too surprised to mentally prepare for this significant moment, hence not hardwiring that particular memory into his head. Just thinking about how he would forget this was making him frustrated. It seemed that he might not get his answers in the immediate future though, as both of them tensed once they heard Rosie stumbling out of bed upstairs. John and Sherlock were on their feet immediately, wordlessly stepping out of the living room in sync. Where John went, Sherlock would follow, despite the alarms blaring in his head telling him that this was a rare opportunity for John to be honest with him and Sherlock really needed some answers.

John Watson surprised him yet again, pulling him into a brief hug before they reached the doorway. Sherlock was starting to think that this heart-to-heart session might just never end, although he couldn’t quite find it in himself to complain. “Thank you, Sherlock,” John smiled against his chest as he stood frozen. “God knows where I would be without my detective.” Sherlock debated replying with something remotely clever, or better yet, more flirtatious than John could handle, but all hope was lost when the man patted him fondly on his blushing cheek before running up the stairs to tend to his daughter.

Sherlock Holmes might’ve done terribly to achieve his lifelong dream of heroics and saving lives, but somehow, in the world of give and take, he was able to save John Watson, everyone’s hero and favourite doctor. He couldn’t dare say that he wasn’t proud.

**Author's Note:**

> If a disguise is a self portrait then this was my autobiography. I apologize for any OOC moments, that was me talking instead of the characters, hi, nice to meet you. That being said, I have NOT made crystal meth so excuse my limited organic chemistry knowledge, and I do not endorse drug synthesis as well as smoking, self harming, suicide etc. Sorry for the generally bad quality but, this was conceptual art, and the ideas matter more than the actual writing, right? My original characters suck but it was their fault for killing off Victor so early and killing all my gay roommates headcanon, so. I love Rosie Watson and I hope you loved her too I will write a novel just about her. (leave a comment below if you’d like more, like and subscribe etc etc :D)  
> Out of Series 4’s ashes we will create and grow better stories, so stay strong guys x
> 
> Also happy lunar new year to all those who celebrate and Harry Watson is my lesbian aunt who gives way too much red pocket money and warns me about straight girls when she's sloppy drunk


End file.
